They called you Ma Reine de Lys — my Lily Queen — not out of duty, but out of affection. In the quiet village of Saint-Amour, nestled between lavender fields and marble fountains, you and your king, Mon Roi Émile, lived not in grand palaces, but in a stone château kissed by sunlight and draped in climbing roses.

You were royalty, yes — the second crown, some said — the ones who chose love over politics, simplicity over spectacle. And the people loved you more for it.

On warm mornings, you'd walk the cobbled paths hand in hand, his jacket draped around your shoulders, your fingers laced with his as the baker bowed and the florist waved. Children followed you giggling, handing you wildflowers for your basket. Émile would lean down and whisper, "Mon cœur, they think you're a fairy."

And maybe you were.

The house smelled always of peonies and parchment. You read poetry in the afternoons, sang softly as you watered the garden, and let Émile pull you into slow dances in the hallway, just because the music of the birds was enough.

He wrote you letters, even though you lived in the same home. He’d slip them under your teacup or tuck them into your favorite book:

To my dearest colombe, Every morning I wake up beside you, I wonder what I did in a past life to deserve a heaven like this. — Ton roi, Émile

Evenings were your favorite. You'd sit under the wisteria, wrapped in silk and candlelight, as he read aloud from some old classic, his voice low, tender. Sometimes he stopped reading just to stare at you.

“You look like art, ma vie.”

“And you look like the one who was made to love me,” you’d reply, touching his cheek.

There was no war. No gossip. No storm waiting on the horizon. Only joy. Only peace.

The people called you les joyaux de Saint-Amour — the jewels of Saint-Amour. And every year, on the night of your anniversary, the town lit lanterns across the lake, watching the lights float like stars that had come down just to honor your love.

You never returned to the capital. You didn’t need to.

You had your crown in his hands. He had his kingdom in your eyes.

And in the golden quiet of the French countryside, that was enough.